


Monkey Tree

by Faisalliot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Crack Treated Seriously, FUCK YEAH YOU CAN, Indian Harry Potter, Just Barely Skirts The Line of Crack Treated Seriously, Mentor Severus Snape, NOT biologically in this one, Other, Regular (But Tasteful) Fourth Wall Breaks, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Severus Snape Has a Heart, The Most Godawful Comedy You'll Ever Find, The cops are dicks in this story, and the answer is, asks the question: can you make a son out of the kid you hit with your car, because you won’t find it from me, but without the slurring and with good pacing, in this episode severus snape, keep scrolling. Go watch Paw Patrol for some nice cop propaganda, kind of reads like the narrator is drunk rambling the story to u at 5am, so as such, so if you’re a blue lives matter kinda guy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28684143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faisalliot/pseuds/Faisalliot
Summary: In the summer preceding his 5th year, Harry’s forced into a trip with the Dursleys to Spinner’s End to meet one of Petunia’s old friends, and while he’s there, he gets hit by a car.I want you to consider Harry’s luck. No, seriously, ruminate on it for a second. Now, I want you to guess who might’ve just run him over.Yeah. That’s right. Severus Snappy himself.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 129
Kudos: 223





	1. YOU DON'T EVEN PAY ME

**Author's Note:**

> i am personally very proud of those tags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Harry breaks some iron bars and gets hit by a car. Life is not ideal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petunia: Why the hell does it smell like vinegar in here  
> Harry, panicking: I’m trying to make chlorine gas.  
> Petunia: Why, so you can kill yourself?  
> Harry, still panicking: Yeah.  
> Petunia: Good. Do it faster.  
> Harry:  
> 

Harry had already drifted into half-consciousness by the sound of twittering little footsteps approaching his door, but it was only when Aunt Petunia rapped on it with her bony bird knuckles― _rap rap rap―_ that he saw it fit to groan. Oh, that rapid three-tune... Harry had loathed it for as long as he could remember, and the feeling was no different even now. He waited a beat, expecting a sharp comment for the noise, but no chastisement came through the door. So he groaned again, this time louder, in hopes of getting her to snap at him.

No such luck. Ugh. It was going to be one of _those_ days. 

“What do you _want.”_ He called shortly, in no mood to be bothered, and did not trouble himself by rolling towards the general direction of his door. He waited for it―she always made him wait, just to make sure he was awake―and sure enough, her voice squawked shrilly,

“Up! Get up! Come downstairs in a minute or it’s coming out of your allowance!”

To which Harry yelled back through his papery pillow, “You don’t even _pay me!”_

“Down _stairs!”_

And with that said, her little footsteps tapped back towards the stairs. Harry rolled his eyes and buried his face in his pillow, trying to will himself to conk back out, but he knew it would be a wasted effort. Consciousness, the bane of all teenagers, had unwillingly come to him and was here to stay. Stupid chore conditioning.... Ugh. He jerked when something rattled across his room, but stilled once he realized it was just Hedwig’s cage.

Well. No better time than the present. Half the bones in Harry’s body seemed to crack at once as he sat up and stretched (“Bubblewrap Boy,” came Dean’s unbidden voice in the back of his head) and he leveled a look at his bird. 

“Madam,” He said, tilting his head. “Good to see you up and at it. Would you fancy a day trapped in your cage? How about soggy vegetables?” 

Hedwig ruffled her feathers in what looked like an emphatic “no” and Harry quirked a self-deprecating smile. He looked at the newspaper on his desk. Useless, useless newspaper. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Life’s hard for us both, huh?” He said, thinking about the radio silence from his friends. They’d promised to write to him the moment they got back to their homes, but summer break had started over a week ago... “Let me see if the bars and your lock have corroded enough; if they did, I can bust you out. Don’t quote me on that, though.” 

Yes, that’s right. The bars were back on Harry’s window, courtesy of Uncle Vernon having yet another manic fit, the likes of which Harry hadn’t seen since he was ten and they were running from the letters. Something about John Major, “liberal poofters”, and an election that Harry didn’t care about. It was the only thing on the news, which was really fucking annoying given that he was trying so hard to hear _anything_ about his world on it, since the Daily Prophet had proven to be overwhelmingly useless. Yet another woe of his. 

He slid off his bed with hardly any sound, scratching his bare chest as he approached his window. He carefully tilted the mirror away from the window and inspected the bars, noting just how much they had rusted away through his effort. The bars weren’t nearly as sturdy as they were back when he was twelve (Harry fondly remembered the demise of _those_ ) but still problematic, given that he couldn’t pry them off through brute force alone.

He _would_ get them off though. He was already suffering as it was; there was no need to put his bird through it too. At least these would probably prove easy to get off. The bars were thin (they were more slats than bars if he was being honest) and nailed into the original nail holes, so they were objectively fragile. The real tipping point was going to be this, though; whether or not the bars had corroded enough. All he needed to do was try to push on them again and if they came off, he could bust his bird out into freedom. 

Give Harry a minute to explain the process that lead up to this corrosion, because he’s rather proud of himself for thinking it up. Here goes: when he’d gotten back to Privet Drive, he’d been _furious_ to see the bars back on his window and demanded for them to be taken off, which went about as well as you’d expect. All he’d gotten for his troubles was a lot of spittle in his face and a clean whack to the side of the head. Oh, and a litany about his “ruddy bird” and how he “wasn’t allowed” to let her outside because “what if the neighbors see!?” He forgot to mention that part. 

So, he’d immediately tried to break the bars because, as he said, there was no way he was going to let Hedwig suffer through another summer in her cage... _and,_ with the bars in place, it would be _very_ hard to get the Daily Prophet from the barn owl that came by with it. The bars were rather thin, so objectively they’d be easier to break, but Harry had tested it himself with minimal success. All he’d found out from that endeavor was that if he bore down on a single bar with all his weight―which was a pitiful amount―the metal _did_ bow substantially. Not enough for him to break it...but enough to be promising. Because if the metal was that fragile, it was possible to find tools to break them with. 

So, he’d gone to the shed. It was there that he had found out that the bars were made of iron by rooting through the back and finding the discarded packaging. He’d initially been hoping to find the tools to pry the nails out of the bars, but the packaging had something better. Instructions on the back for how to avoid rusting. That was about when Harry had found out that rust weakened iron considerably... _and_ that iron was one of the metals that was most susceptible to rusting. 

That was where the idea had originated. 

So, Harry had done some, er, _light_ reading in a quick rendezvous to the library (where he’d gotten a lot of suspicious glances) and found out how to _corrode_ the bars. As far as he could tell, he could use the following for the quickest results, thanks to a book about patina: hydrogen peroxide, water, salt, vinegar, and heat.

And then, he’d― 

“― _Boy!_ I said, _come down here!”_ Aunt Petunia bellowed from downstairs. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “COMING!” He bellowed back, even though he had absolutely no plans of doing so. “EXCUSE ME FOR NOT COMING DOWN THERE QUICK ENOUGH! NEXT TIME I’LL JUST SKIP THE PANTS!” Another blatant lie, but enough to get her to audibly cry out in disgust, so that was a point for Harry. 

Ahem. Anyway, as he was telling you before he got so _rudely_ interrupted; he’d managed to knick some hydrogen peroxide from Petunia’s first aid kit, water from the bathroom sink, salt from the kitchen, and vinegar and a spray bottle from the Tesco and thrift store respectively, which were a few streets away. He had totally paid for those using a five pound note that he’d swiped from Petunia’s purse, too. The moral sacrifices we make for progress…

Oh, and he’d used a mirror for heat, since the surface would refract the light back onto the bars. Better to use it for that rather than stare at his own gruggly face all day. 

So, he’d measured Hedwig with a ruler to see how many bars he’d need to remove to get her out, worked out that three would do the trick, and thus wiped down the ends of the bars with salt water regularly to keep them wet, sprayed them intermittently with vinegar and hydrogen peroxide, kept the window open, and tilted his mirror towards them. He did the same treatment on the lock on her cage, too. And whenever rust appeared, he scraped at it quietly with a coin he found in the park, and brushed away the rust flakes. Yes, it was a grueling process, yes, it was unbearably hot in his room, and yes, the whole room smelled like vinegar and body odor, but none of the Dursley’s ever dared tread foot _into_ his room while he was still around, and he was willing to suffer for Hedwig’s freedom. 

Hopefully, the week-long effort had paid off; now it was time to put his body weight on one of the rusted bars and see if it snapped off. Exchanging a look with Hedwig, Harry pushed aside his mirror, stood steady on the crusty carpet in his room, grounded himself with his left foot, put both palms on the bar, and _pushed._

And to his _utter_ amazement, with a faint bang, the bar snapped. 

Harry scrambled to catch it before it could fall down to the ground outside, and slowly pulled it inside, staring at it in disbelief. Huh. Somehow, he wasn’t entirely sure that this would work. But it _did!_ He held it towards Hedwig, eyes wide. 

“Hell yeah.” He breathed, and quickly did the same to the other two bars. 

Finally, _finally_ something _good_ was happening. _Bang―bang―_ off they went. Straight into his palm. Harry took the bottom of the rusted iron paddock Vernon had affixed to Hedwig’s cage, too, and with one sharp, downwards tug, it came clean off. _Yes._ Grinning broadly, Harry opened the door to Hedwig’s cage, and gestured towards the window. 

“Get out of here, old girl,” He whispered, fixing one of her feathers, “don’t worry about me. Just get out of here, go find Ron, and wait. I’ll get there eventually, I’m sure of it.”

Hedwig made a small, crooning noise, as if she were apologizing, and hopped onto his shoulder. She went to nip at his hair affectionately, but almost immediately let it go, ruffling her feathers subtly as if she were trying to hide her disgust. Oops. He should probably take a shower after this. 

“Not your fault,” He muttered, gently scritching the top of her head. “Go on. And I promise that I’ll shower. I’ll see you soon.” 

With one last mournful hoot, Hedwig hopped onto the windowsill, squeezed herself out of the bars, and went soaring off into the daytime sky. Harry peered outside as he watched her go, wincing as the hot air curled into his room, before shutting his window. Well. He hoped that she’d make it to wherever Ron was―his best friend would surely take care of her. Footsteps tapped on the stairs and Harry ignored them for a split second before he snapped to attention. 

Aunt Petunia. 

He hurriedly drew the curtains to his window, figuring it might buy him a _little_ time since the bars were on the side of the house anyway, and darted to his bedroom door as Petunia’s footsteps tapped ever closer. He flung it open and locked eyes with her, noting the flush on her cheeks. She was angry. 

“How _long_ does it take to put on a shirt, boy?” She snapped, looking him up and down in disgust. 

“Er.” Harry looked down at his own bare chest, very belatedly remembering that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “I was tending to Hedwig first. Since I know you hate it when she bangs on her cage.” Nevermind that she wasn’t there anymore, Harry thought with a small note of glee. 

“Well, you’d know that wouldn’t be a _problem_ today if you’d have come downstairs.” She sniffed. “We’re going out today. All of us, including you, since Lord knows what you’d do if you were left to your own devices. Get dressed and,” she gave him a look of deep disgust, “shower, first.”

Harry blinked. “Where are we going?”

“On a daytrip to visit a friend of mine in Cokesworth.” Petunia said shrewdly, and Harry waited, but she offered no further explanation.

“ _Why?”_

“Don’t ask questions,” She said shortly, but still tacked on, “I knew her through all of primary school, and she asked me to come down for tea and bring the family. She mentioned _you_ too, so I have to bring you. Now _go,_ get in the damn shower. You reek.” 

And with that, Aunt Petunia whipped around and went back downstairs, muttering insults under her breath. Harry blinked, looking around uselessly. Er. There was a problem here. 

“Aunt Petunia?”

_“What?”_

“You _are_ aware that there’s a madman out to kill me, right?”

“And I hope he does! I won’t tell you again, _boy,_ get showered and dressed! _Now!”_

A low curl of anger licked at Harry’s insides, and he swallowed it down quickly, knowing damn well that it’d lead him nowhere good. He was a little miffed about her complete and utter lack of regard for his life, but he supposed he ought to have expected that from her. Well. Harry stopped and really thought about it for a moment, and decided to just comply, because if he was _really_ honest...it didn’t seem that much of _anyone_ cared about his life right now.. If the authority figures in his life actually gave a shit, _surely_ they would’ve told him to stay home. But he’d been walking the streets since he got back home a bit over a week ago and got no grief for it, so _clearly_ it was fine. 

So fine. Fine, then. 

It’d be nice to get out of this godforsaken neighborhood too. 

And, Harry thought as he retreated into his room to get clothes, at least Cokesworth would keep Vernon and Petunia from noticing those missing bars a little longer. He wasn’t looking forward to that argument.

Little did Harry know, he’d never have that particular argument (which this narrator very much assures you would’ve been _catastrophic)_ . In fact, the very last that Harry would have to bear from the Dursley’s this summer would be their thinly veiled (and sometimes overt) insults and sharp, scathing questions in the car ride to Cokesworth. _Did you even bother with a comb today? Mummy, why did he have to come?? You better keep your ruddy head down while we’re there, boy, or there’ll be trouble._ You get the picture.

So, they’d gotten to Aunt Petunia’s friend’s house, Harry had exchanged some awkward pleasantries with the frail-looking woman, and was then promptly thrown under the bus by Vernon saying something like, “Our Harry just _hates_ being cooped up inside―I’m sure he’d like to go outside, maybe meet some kids in the area, _wouldn’t he?”_

He had gagged on the word “Our”, but still managed to get his firm hint across, so with a barely hidden eye roll, Harry followed the cue and was thus banished outside. He’d wandered the town for a while, vaguely unsettled by it. It was so quiet―there wasn’t a single car on the streets, no pedestrians perusing the sidewalk, not even animals chittering. All that had accompanied him was the low buzz of the power lines, and a persistent feeling of foreboding. 

It was only when he had spied a playground with a swing set nearby that Harry saw it fit the cross the street, intent on sitting on one of them. Yes, he had thought that it might fall straight from the arch given just how much rust there was on it, but Harry would’ve just considered that karma for his misdeeds against the iron bars on his window and called it a day. He had smiled faintly then, still pleased with himself for pulling that off. He thought about how troublesome it’d be once his aunt and uncle found out, but― 

―And that, right in the middle of his thought, was when the car whipped around the corner and ploughed straight into poor Harry.

* * *

As far as Harry could tell you, the events that followed this occurrence were _very_ muddled. Give him a second to give you the play-by-play.

Number one, he _had_ to have spun mid-air no less than three times. This wasn’t of any particular import, but Harry had thought it was worth mentioning. 

Number two, he had known right in the moment that he’d _finally_ gotten a concussion, despite Vernon’s various, fruitless attempts of inflicting such throughout his life. Harry knew he had been filled with strange, vindictive glee at this in the bare second that he’d forgotten that he, in fact, was concussed. 

Number three and finally. Er. Harry just had it, but he couldn’t remember.

But he _could_ remember lying supine on the ground for several seconds, ears ringing fiercely as he processed his new position after the deed had been done. He’d taken a moment to wonder why on earth he didn’t feel super hurt, and just as he’d done so, the shock of the moment faded away, and a swelling, full-body ache began to trickle in. He’d tried _very_ hard to breathe through the burgeoning pain (which proved very difficult as the wind had been knocked out of him), and made an attempt to assess what areas it was coming from before being forced to admit that literally everything hurt the same. Even to his concussed mind, this had seemed less than ideal.

What he remembered the clearest, though, was this―the moment a shadow fell over his face. He had wondered briefly since when clouds got that dark, but then it dawned on him that someone was standing over him. And they were definitely yelling at him too. Harry had blinked dazedly up at the figure, and couldn’t make out who they were, much less what they looked like (aside from great blobs of color), because his glasses had fucked off to god-knows-where from the force of the crash. 

He knew he hadn’t been able to feel his tongue back then, but only retrospect revealed it was because he’d bitten it. He did know this―he had said something along the lines of, “And I thought crashing Arthur’s car into that tree was bad,” before the figure above him seemed to stop dead.Then, they flicked their hand, his glasses had flown onto his face, and Harry could see again. 

And lo and behold, there had stood Severus Snappy Snape himself, looking absolutely apoplectic with rage. 

From here, he had only vague memories of the man’s white face, of which was contorted with anger. Harry really had no fucking clue what he had been saying because his ears had still been ringing like all hell and again, he was concussed, but muddy reviews of his lip movements and the sheer amount of spittle he could remember flying on his face were indicative of a lot of profanity. It was only _after_ Snape had shoved him into the same car that had hit him (much to his own, feeble protests) that everything went black. 

You may be wondering why this is all important at the moment. That’d be because Harry had just woken up for the first time _since_ being hit by Snape’s car, and his narrative ruminations on the whole shebang were helping him figure out what the hell had happened himself. Once he was reasonably sure he’d puzzled out the gist of the events, Harry slowly pulled himself upright, on a musty couch in― 

“What the _hell,”_

Harry _gaped_ at his surroundings as he took in what looked like a veritable dump, with the taste of medicinal potions tickling the back of his throat and snores coming from across the house. There were no less than five cutting boards scattered around the room covered in what looked like the remnants of various plants, shattered vials haphazardly swept to one particular wall, various scorch marks, what looked like a bowl of _flobberworms,_ newspapers strewn all over the floor, and a persistent, cloying smell of cloves and...algae(?). He looked over the catastrophe, completely dumbfounded, and hurriedly tossed the threadbare blanket off of himself, no longer entirely assured of it’s cleanliness. The snores continued. 

Harry would like to assure you that, unfortunately, you’ve read between the lines correctly. 

He was in Professor Snape’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry, having a good day:  
> Harry:  
> Harry: Wait _hold on._  
>  Harry: This doesn’t make any sense―  
> Harry, getting hit by a car: THERE it is.


	2. I SHOULD EAT SOME LETTUCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is DisMcGusted, takes matters into his own hands, and despite the fact that someone has HIT HIM WITH THEIR FUCKING CAR he makes the executive decision to clean their house. A spaghetti monster definitely had nothing to do with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry, waking up in a decrepit dump with a splitting headache:  
> Harry: Okay. Nothing feels off in places that shouldn’t feel off. No violations of the no-no zone. Cool cool.  
> Harry: No need to call the police or anything.  
> Spaghetti Monster: OwO  
> Harry:  
> 

“What the fuck,” Harry breathed, scrambling to his feet with some difficulty (his hip was not happy with him). He hurriedly assessed his own state of being (he concluded that it was “not ideal but cleaner than this room”), and, finding nothing missing, he hastily shoved on his glasses and said once more, “What the _fuck.”_

Okay. 

_Okay._

A lot of things came together in Harry’s scrambled mind at once and he wiped the sweat off his face, shaking his head as he tried to process it all. So. Not only had Snape hit him with his _fucking car (_ Professor Snape could _drive!?),_ not only had Snape _woken him up_ with his loud snores (he snores! He _snores! Why does he snore!?)_ but Harry was in his _house_ (for some reason Harry had only ever imagined that he lived in some random cave) and it was a _shithole._

Who―who _lived_ like this?! 

Harry _pointedly_ ignored the hypocrisy of that, knowing damn well what his own bedroom looked like, but as he took in more and more of the room and frantically surveyed the filth he’d woken up in, the hypocrisy seemed to diminish and disappeared entirely the moment his eyes landed on _moldy spaghetti._ Jesus _Christ._

When Harry tells you that this spaghetti was _moldy,_ like, he meant it was _moldy._ And it wasn’t _just_ moldy―it looked like it’s own self-sustaining ecosystem at this point _._ Like a chia pet crossed with a clown wig. It was _huge._

“What is he trying _do_ , make a spaghetti monster?!” Harry whispered to himself, darting a fearful glance towards where the snores were coming from as he edged away from the abomination before him. “ _Penicillin?!”_

_Was_ that penicillium mold? Harry didn’t know, but what he _did_ know was that, left and right, no matter which way he turned, he found more and more things that both scared the daylights _and_ drew the neatfreak out of him. He just―ugh, UGH! If it was his _own_ mess, it was _fine,_ because _he_ made it, it was familiar, and he knew where everything _was_ but―but―!

Ohhhh, this was just _too damn much._

Harry took a deep breath, and held his throbbing head in his hands. Ohhh...his luck. What _was_ his luck? He was having a _good_ day. He busted out his owl, was minimally harassed by his family, Aunt Petunia’s friend had acknowledged that he _existed,_ and right when he was getting suspicious because he didn’t _have_ good days, WHAM! Hit by a _car!_ But then the car had a _wizard_ in it who―presumably―took care of his injuries and was someone he _knew_ to boot. But _then,_ not only was that person someone he _hated,_ but their house was a _dump_ to boot!

Harry looked at the chia pet mold again, and gagged. Every second he spent being faced down with it put Harry one step closer to losing it and just cleaning it, dignity and consequences be damned. He stared at the spaghetti, somehow unable to get around it. It didn’t matter where he looked in the living room, his eyes were always drawn back to it. He swore that it was looking back. What was that quote about staring into the abyss again? The one from some Nietschew guy. Nietschew? Nietsewhe? No, there wasn’t a ‘W’ in― _Nietzsche._ THAT was the guy.

But yeah, what Harry was getting at here was that the spaghetti was the abyss, and if he didn’t kill it now, he was 100% sure it’d kill him first. So. He was going to go take care of it now if you wouldn’t mind. He looked over the room, almost physically feeling stress hives rising on his arms, and groaned aloud, rubbing his sore hip. Scratch that. He wasn’t taking care of the spaghetti monster—he was taking care of the spaghetti monster _first,_ and then... Fine. _Fine._ This was going to be _fine._ His mind was made up. First the spaghetti monster, and then…

He looked at the rest of the house, and rolled up his sleeves. 

“Once this guy’s dead, you’re next.” He said to a sad-looking succulent and, gritting his teeth, Harry threw a scathing look towards where the snoring was coming from, and got to work.

Harry’s not going to bore you with the minutiae details of the massive cleaning process that took place after this because, if he’s being honest, he hobbled around for most of it and swore a _lot,_ and the less he told you about the black mold in the bathroom, the better. Like, as fun as it would be to tell you about the science-y get-up he had to put on so he wouldn’t _die_ and the painter’s tape he had to unearth from the (horrifying) attic to seal the door, he’s already told you about how he rusted and ultimately broke iron bars. He’s pretty sure that was boring enough as it was, and in retrospect, he regrets telling you so much about it. His bad. He was just excited. 

So. He’ll just highlight the key points for you. Number one, the _only_ place in the house that was even remotely clean was a potion’s lab that Harry had quickly steered clear from. He didn’t have a death wish, thank you very much. Number two, he found a _lot_ of weird things in the house. Like, a _lot._ For example, there was a tiny, bug-eyed ceramic frog that sort of looked like it was tripping, a weird chicken sign buried in the barren pantry (it had a strange elegance to it), a _skull_ (of which Harry had, thankfully, quickly determined was just a Halloween prop), a tiny gourd figurine that morphed into a goose-head at the top(?) for some reason, and―his personal favorite―a _horrendously_ ugly frosted glass cat, whom he’d ceremoniously begun calling ‘Clarence.’

He didn’t know. It just looked like a Clarence to him. 

Just suffice to say that when he said it was ugly like, it was _ugly._ It was _bad._ Hold on, let him take a picture for you, because he really thinks that you need to see this:

See what he means?

But yeah, that was besides the point. Wait, how was he formatting these again? Did he start by saying “A”, “One”, or did he tack “Number” in front of one? Waitwait, let him―okay, it’s number one and so on. He’s on three. SO. Number three. 

Er.

What was number three?

_‘Dammit,’_ He thought, scratching the back of his head and wincing when he rubbed right over a sore spot. _‘Concussions are horrible.’_

Yeah, he meant that, by the way. Seriously. He’d forgotten the word for purp―OH _that_ was what three had been! Number three, Snape _clearly_ had not healed Harry in full earlier, because Harry had legitimately forgotten the word for purple some odd hours ago before suddenly remembering it, and he would put money on it having something to do with the headache that had been pressing the back of his head all day. He’d had to sit down a couple times because of it and nearly fallen down the stairs―of which he scrubbed clean _really_ well afterwards because _ew_ ―as a consequence. 

But continuing, number four, he didn’t know _how,_ but Snape had _not_ woken up for any of this. He’d always assumed the guy would be a _really_ light sleeper because, like, he was _him,_ you know? But no, he was out _cold._ Harry was really surprised by this at first, up until he tossed a rock near Snape’s door, and it pinged off. Snape’s door was absolutely covered in wards. It made sense, Harry guessed. 

Number five and finally, the attic was _really_ creepy at first, but it had grown on Harry quickly. There were a lot of weird things stuffed up there, but it was surprisingly well insulated and perhaps not as messy as he thought it’d be. It had a strange, untouched look about it; the worst he had to take care of was a LOT of dust and some cobwebs. Several friendly spiders had needed to be relocated outside via Harry’s palm. 

It’d been a particular chore to chase them out of a strange looking opaque jar, which Harry had found to be full of really dusty muggle notes. The jar was this ugly glazed thing and was probably shoved up in the attic for a reason, so, in an effort to annoy Snape at some point in the future, he took it upon himself to brush the brunt of the dust off the money and clean out the jar just to place it right in the middle of the kitchen counter, where it was still sitting proudly even now. 

_‘Well,’_ Harry thought as he took the mop and the bucket he’d found outside and dumped them, ‘ _That’s that.’_ He looked over the house as he came back inside, rubbing his eye, and saw nothing else worth wasting his energy one. So. Now that he was _finally_ done making the house look like a tornado had _not_ swept through it, Harry made his way into the sitting room, and flopped on the couch in exhaustion, admiring his own handiwork while contemplating a shower. He trusted the bathroom now, but the towels outside were still damp...

That reminded him. Thank God that cleaning the couch was the very first thing he’d done after taking care of the spaghetti monster. He had washed the pillows and couch cushions and set them out to dry in the (incredibly overgrown) backyard, and the hot summer sun had officially taken care of all the moisture a couple hours ago. He mentally thanked himself for reconstructing the couch promptly, because now he wanted nothing more than to conk out and not move for the next thirty years. 

He was hungry, though. He had perused the fridge earlier to make sure there were no other spaghetti monsters in the works, and found it nearly completely bare save for, like, eggs and butter. He didn’t feel much like making scrambled eggs right now, much less without garlic, onion powder, salt, pepper, butter, and cheese. Harry wasn’t a white person―he had standards, dammit. 

Ugh. His head throbbed a bit as that lump in his throat seemed to swell, signaling exactly what he wanted clearly. “I feel you, old boy.” He said, yawning and trying to dislodge it to no avail. _‘I should eat some lettuce,’_ He thought to himself. _‘Can’t get lettuce. Shouldn’t leave the house. Don’t know what’s out there, and a guy’s trying to kill me anyway.’_

The only way Harry could even conceive getting something to eat was by ordering something, but he didn’t have his coin pouch on him, and even if he did, he didn’t think the pizza guy would be particularly enthused by his knuts and sickles. He wasn’t feeling pizza anyway. More like...lo mein. Vegetable lo mein. That had good stuff in it. 

That was when the sun dipped low enough to shine on the money jar he’d unearthed from the attic. The light bounced off the glaze on it and refracted towards his face, which he nearly laughed at because of _course_ he’d put the stupid jar right where it’d blind him, and then paused. There was a pretty substantial amount of money in that thing. 

Harry hadn’t even _dreamed_ of pilfering from it because, you know, morals, but then again, the jar _clearly_ wasn’t in use given just how many spiders had been in it, and it wasn't like a wizard like Professor Snape had much use for muggle money. If he remembered right, like, 15 or 20 pounds bought more than enough for the Dursley’s to eat comfortably. If Harry took, like, 15 pounds out of that wad to pay for takeout, what was Snape going to do? Spank him? After cleaning the whole fucking house?

Nah, screw it, Harry was going to take a bit as recompense for cleaning this shithole, thank you very much. _‘Consider this retribution for the spaghetti monster,’_ Harry thought, directing a sour glance towards Snape’s room, where the man was _miraculously_ still snoring away. _‘Fucking layabout.’_

Harry rolled over on the couch and rifled around on the table next to it in search of a more recent muggle newspaper he shoved on there, figuring he could find some sort of takeout place advertised within. It took him a while to track one down, but once he picked one out, he gave himself a moment to muster the will to grudgingly get off the couch, did so, and hobbled to the kitchen, where he’d filled a drawer with a bunch of menus he’d found scattered around the house.

He decided to just get himself some vegetable lo mein (on a whim, he tossed in a chicken lo mein too) and a couple egg rolls since the newspaper reviews had said they were good there. Snape was a dick, but it was rude to send food to someone's _house_ and not get anything for them so, trying to suss out Snape’s general vibe, Harry decided to get the git some kung pao chicken, since the guy was so slap-happy. Get it? Kung _pao―_ nevermind. 

He called, placed the order (he’d had surprisingly little trouble getting the address; he’d walked outside to get the street and house number, and the moment he said it, the woman behind the phone said ‘oh, I know where you are, you order here all the time’ which...Harry didn’t quite know what to do with that), and then brought out 15 pounds in preparation. Harry watched out the window glass for cars that rolled by, and eventually, when one stopped by the house, he went ahead and opened the door before the delivery boy could even knock, paid for the food, made some brief small talk, and then closed the front door softly. 

And that was when the shuffling down the hall stopped, and a cold, deadly calm voice said,

“What the _hell_ have you done?”

_‘Oh boy, here we go.’_

Harry shifted the bag in his right hand to his left, pointed to the table he’d woken up facing, and said directly to Snape’s bone-white face, “Got rid of your spaghetti monster,” And then, shaking the bag in his hand, he tacked on, “And got dinner.”

Snape stared at him, long and hard, lips pressed white. He gesticulated around the room jerkily, and voice nearly shaking, he said, “ _How_ could you be _so stupid_ as to use _magic,_ you _insolent, moronic little twit.”_

... _What?_

The confusion must’ve shown on his face, and Snape must’ve thought it was fake, because he looked _supremely_ unimpressed as he drawled, “There is _no_ chance in hell that you cleaned this house by hand.” His voice rose a bit as he continued with, “So I want you to explain to me what _imbecilic thoughts_ came together in your puny little mind to convince you that it was a _good idea_ for _you,_ a _minor,_ to use magic _outside of school.”_

Except Harry had 100% _not_ done that, and had _actually_ cleaned the house by hand. He was a bit miffed for all of three seconds that Snape legitimately thought he was incapable of cleaning by hand before a thought occurred to him and he stilled. 

“Where _is_ my wand?”

Snape stopped dead. 

“Your wand?”

It had felt like Harry’d been operating through a haze all day, but right now, in this moment, it seemed all of it dissipated at once just to make room for the hunk of ice that sunk deep in his chest. 

“Oh my god.” Harry uttered, realizing in dawning horror that he had left his _wand_ on his desk at home. “Oh my _god_ I am _so_ stupid―what the _hell―”_

He hurriedly rounded the couch, slammed the takeout bag on the table with a shaking hand, and ran his hand through his hair, belatedly running through all kinds of worst case scenarios. Getting jumped in a back alley, getting kidnapped, having a stunner shot at him, getting _killed,_ no one ever knowing what had happened to him, getting—getting held under the Cruciatus _again..._

How, _how_ could he have been so _dumb?_

What was _wrong_ with him? He’d been so harassed by Aunt Petunia and so caught up in the zeal of rusting off those stupid―iron―bars that he’d _completely_ forgotten to pocket his wand before getting into the car! Someone was trying to _kill_ him! What if a Death Eater had seen him!? What if Voldemort _himself_ had come!? What would he have _done?_

“Potter, get a _grip.”_ Snape said sharply, grabbing him by the shoulder. “What _about_ your wand?”

“I left it on my desk!” Harry busted out in a hurry, shaking off Snape’s hand. “I could’ve been attacked, I could have _died,_ I―!”

But how would he have even done it? Harry thought, going cold.

He sat so close to Dudley in the back seat of the car, and he _surely_ would’ve squealed the moment he saw Harry’s wand sticking out of his pocket. There was no chance in hell that his aunt or uncle would’ve let him take it, and while any other day of the week Petunia would’ve been _more_ than happy to use that as an excuse to turn around and leave him behind, she was always sensitive about people mentioning Harry by name. Once they did that, she always got all weird and insisted on taking him, something about not wanting to be perceived as ‘one of _those_ people.’ 

Harry hadn’t had a _choice_ in going and he would’ve _never_ been allowed to bring his wand. Vernon or Petunia would never have even _heard_ of it. They might've even gone so far as it snap it if he'd insisted. And _just_ when this dawned on Harry, the helplessness of the whole schtick, he turned to see that Snape had gone white in anger.

“You are _not_ telling me you took a day trip to a town you’ve _never_ been to mere _weeks_ after the Dark Lord’s resurrection and didn’t bring your _fucking_ wand, you are _not_ telling me that, Potter, or I’ll―!”

“I didn’t have a CHOICE!” Harry said quickly, ducking away because Professor Snape had just said an _oath._ This was going in a _lot_ of different directions at the same time. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would _never―!”_

“Bull _shit!”_

_“You don’t know my relatives!”_ Harry snapped, voice cracking, loud enough to make Snape pause, and he seized the takeout bag from the coffee table and hurried to the kitchen for distance, barely remembering to slam the bag back down on the other table.

Snape wasn’t done yet though, and his mouth opened and shut several times, face flushing deeper and deeper before he began, in a very strangled tone, “You sent a _stranger_ to my house and opened the door to them, _wandless! When the Dark Lord is trying to kill you!_ In all my years, I have _never_ seen such an arrogant, ignorant _dunderhead_ like―”

_’I didn’t WANT to!’_ Harry’s head began to pound in earnest and he nearly sunk into a chair, starting to feel faint. He was already hurt and he didn’t want to think about all of the other horrible things that could’ve happened to him. He sure as hell didn’t want to hear them either.

So, he looked to the heavens for patience, ignored the grain of truth in Snape’s statement, and cut the man off quickly, trying anything to make this _stop_. “Oh, yeah, a Death Eater is _definitely_ going to know what a delivery driver looks like, and come to some random shithole house in the _exact_ amount of time it’d take a normal delivery driver to get here.” He tried to take a deep breath, but only succeeded in slightly crushing one of the boxes in the bag hand. In the spur of the moment, he tacked on vindictively, goadingly, “Yes, Professor, you're absolutely right. And I'm sure that they all know how to _drive_ too.” 

Snape’s face bloomed _bright_ red and he took a menacing step towards Harry as he snarled, “I don’t know _what_ you’re trying to imply there, _boy―”_

Oh hoh, and there was the trigger word. Having had just _enough_ of this―this _ping-ponging_ argument, Harry _whirled_ around, room whirling with him, and yelled, “YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR _CAR!“_

Snape reared back at the volume and then, matching Harry’s energy, he yelled back, “MAYBE I SHOULD’VE DONE IT _HARDER!_ WOULD’VE BEEN A BETTER WAY FOR YOU TO GO OUT INSTEAD OF BEING _MURDERED_ BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO _STUPID_ TO BRING YOUR―! _”_

It devolved entirely from there.

“—OH, JUST _DO IT_ , YOU FUCKING PRISS!” Harry screamed at the top of his lungs, tearing his way towards the front door and, thrusting his finger towards it, “I’LL LAY ON THE DRIVEWAY FOR YOU!”

“GET YOUR SORRY ARSE OVER HERE _RIGHT NOW!”_ Snape thundered, pointing his finger at the ground next to him like Harry was a _dog―_

“RUN ME THE FUCK OVER!” Harry roared, throwing out his arms, “PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY YOU― “ And here came the insults. “―GREASY, SLIMY, NO-GOOD, BEAK NOSED _BITCH!”_

In a glowing display of maturity, Snape yelled unintelligibly then, stooped down to snatch up a slipper that Harry himself had left near the couch, and violently hurled it towards Harry’s general direction. It was nowhere close enough to hurt him, instead sailing for the clock a couple feet to his left, but in a quick, amygdala-driven decision, Harry dove for it, caught it, and—while also screaming incoherently—threw it back. 

It twacked against a lamp nearby and sent it toppling to the ground, and as if the horrendous crash it made was a cue, Harry and Snape froze as what they had done seemed to catch up to them both at the same time. Snape looked stricken, maybe even a little mortified, and wordlessly stared at Harry, as if waiting to see what _he_ was going to do. Which was a wasted effort, because not even _Harry_ knew what Harry was about to do. He stared down at his own outstretched hand, and watched it tremble, anger still thrumming through him. 

He’d... gotten forced to come on a _stupid_ day trip by his _stupid_ aunt and uncle even though someone was _trying to kill him,_ got hit by a fucking _car_ for all his troubles, woken up in a _shithole house_ facing down a _spaghetti monster_ and cleaned everything in this godforsaken house from top to bottom by _hand_ and gotten _yelled_ at for it, and―and had a _shoe_ thrown near him! In truth, Harry was kind of stunned that Snape had thrown something in the first place! Yes, Aunt Petunia had thrown things before, as had Vernon, but this was his _teacher._

And, Harry thought suddenly, his _teacher_ couldn’t lock him a cupboard, could he? Couldn’t withhold food. Couldn’t make him do chores. Couldn’t lock him anywhere. Couldn’t even _hit_ him. 

_‘Oh hoh,’_ he thought. ‘ _It’s a whole new ballgame_ _now._ _’_

Slowly, Harry bent down, tried not to overbalance, and grabbed a book he’d painstakingly smoothed the dog ears out of hours before on the tiny table to his left. “You know what?” He said, heaving but sounding deadly calm. Snape’s eyes were trained on his hand. “Between the two of us, _you’re_ the one who ran someone over today, and _I_ was the victim. And for _all my trouble,_ I _cleaned your fucking house_ while _you_ slept all day after doing a hacked-up job of healing me to begin with. As far as _I’m_ concerned, I can do whatever the _hell_ I want to this place, since it’s pretty clear _you_ weren’t raising a finger to keep it clean and _you’re_ an asshole. So _fuck_ you.”

And then he _flung_ the book at the wall. 

“What are you going to do?” He said in the ringing silence. “Throw one back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape: ಈ_ಈ  
> Snape: ಠ_ಠ  
> Snape:  
> Snape: The air has changed.  
> Snape, walking out of his room: What the f―WHERE AM I  
> Snape: WHERE ARE THE MOLD LANDMARKS
> 
> Fun fact, Clarence is actually my thing and I love him. He's disgusting but he sits at my desk all day and hangs out. Good noodle. I ALSO do indeed have a gourd goose (her name is Juanita), a chicken sign (her name is Odette), a tripping ceramic frog (Brietta), and TWO halloween skulls, Johnathan and Fitzgerald. They're all cool.


	3. PROFESSOR MICROPENIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry throws things, insults the shit out of Snape, is confronted by Actual Authority, eats noodles, and takes a nap. The line between self care and self destructive is a fine line and my GOD does Harry walk it hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry a couple hours ago, forgetting the color purple: Hm.  
> Harry: That’s weird  
> Harry: That’s suspicious  
> Harry: That’s definitely indicative of a deeper problem  
> Harry:  
> Harry: It’s also SOMEONE _ELSE’S_ PROBLEM AHAH.  
> Present Harry:  
> 

As if Harry throwing the book was a cue, Snape followed his lead.

In a quick, whip-like movement, the man lashed downwards, seized a potted plant, and flung it at the wall near the front door, where it shattered beautifully with an almighty CRASH. Dirt flew  _ everywhere _ , on the freshly-beaten carpet, on the nicely swept floor, on the neatly-dusted credenza, on the scrubbed wood-panelled wall,  _ everywhere,  _ and Harry, upon seeing hours of effort thrown to the dogs in an instant, just about lost it entirely. 

In a frantic movement, he snatched up a glass beaker, of which he’d meticulously lined up by size on the credenza, yelled, “I  _ just _ swept that floor you  _ prick!” _ and hurled the beaker near Snape’s feet. 

“ _I don’t know HOW_ _you did it in the first place!”_ Snape howled as he lobbed a coat over his head and sent the coat rack toppling to the floor.

Armageddon broke loose. Plates, cups, lamps, coasters, pillows, shoes, coats, various knickknacks, you name it, it was most certainly in the air at some point, flying from their white-knuckled hands as they screamed obscenities and insults at each other. 

_ “Spoilt, childish, helpless, useless little―!” _

_ “Smarmy, bullying, immature, death-breathed FUCKHEAD―!” _

“ _ How _ you manage to even  _ wipe your own arse is beyond me, you’ve never raised a finger in your life and I KNOW it!” _

“ _ I’ve been cleaning my house by MYSELF since I was SIX!” _

_ “EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR MOUTH IS A LIE!” _

_ “SEVERUS SNAPE IS A GOOD TEACHER AND A GLOWING EXAMPLE OF MORALITY!” _

It quickly devolved into insults from there. 

“SPOILED BRAT!”

“MANBABY!”

“FOUR-EYED PILLOCK!”

“YELLOW-TOOTHED  _ MILKSOP!” _

“SPECCY LITTLE  _ DICKHEAD―” _

“AT LEAST  _ MY  _ DICK IS BIGGER THAN MY NOSE, PROFESSOR  _ MICROPENIS _ !”

(Harry would later review THAT line in particular and wonder how the hell he didn’t get cursed on the spot)

It was a cacophony of sound in the room, the likes of which Harry had never before experienced, as things shattered and slammed onto the wall and floor. Nothing ever actually hit either of them, thankfully, and Harry didn’t think that was the purpose of this anyway. He wasn’t trying to physically hurt Snape; just  _ really _ piss him off and get the fight he so desperately wanted. Harry was angry because someone he cared about had died, the people who were  _ supposed _ to care about him didn’t seem to care if he  _ did,  _ he’d gotten run  _ over,  _ and everything was shit. Snape was angry because...Harry. Just his general presence was enough for the man. 

Either way, this was catharsis at it’s finest. With every object he sent flying across the room, with every insult he screamed at the top of his lungs, something in Harry loosened more and more, and Harry himself took immense satisfaction in seizing the gourd goose by the neck and hurling it somewhere near the kitchen. It was only when Snape leaned down to grab a huge frosted glass cat just as Harry was about to throw a ceramic frog that Harry stopped suddenly.

“No, wait!” He cried, holding out his free hand. 

Snape paused, bright red and gasping. “ _ What?” _

“Don’t throw Clarence. I like that one.” Harry said hurriedly, ceramic frog still in hand. 

Snape looked down at the frosted glass cat, at Harry, and back at the frosted glass cat, and then gave Harry the  _ strangest _ look. He held out the frosted glass cat in front of him, like breathing in its general direction was poisonous, and gave it a little shake.  _ “Clarence?”  _

“Yes, I named him Clarence. He looked like a Clarence. Er…” Harry looked around the room for somewhere safe that Snape could put Clarence, and realized suddenly what a mess they’d made. His head throbbed. “Oh, and I  _ just _ cleaned this house. You better do some wand waving later, or we are going to have some  _ words―” _

“So, I’m assuming the danger has passed?” Said an old, familiar voice, and Harry leapt three feet into the air, heart stopping. 

Oh fuck.

Through the din of things breaking and the  _ copious _ amount of insults, it seemed that both Harry and Snape had completely missed the front door cautiously edging open. The  _ narrator _ did not, but they just hadn’t said anything because they wanted to see the look on your face. It’s priceless, by the way.

In any case, the only thing on Harry’s mind at the moment was two words: oh shit. His eyes darted to the ceramic frog he still had clutched in his hand. 

“Mr. Weasley, Professor Dumbledore!” He said, trying  _ very _ hard to act like this was a completely normal night.  _ ‘Nope, no dysfunctionality happening here, no sir, move along.’  _ His voice was bright, but noticeably strained despite his best effort. “And―And Sirius, too!” He said, looking down at a familiar black dog, heart threatening to give out under the weight of his own rising mortification. “What a—what a surprise!”

Wonderful. Three  _ other _ authority figures, and ones that he  _ actually _ cared about to boot. 

“Surprise, indeed,” Snape drawled, and Harry turned to see, to his shock, that the man looked positively embarrassed. 

Huh.

Dumbledore was not looking at Harry―he was looking pointedly at Snape, eyebrows raised and arms folded, but on the contrary, Mr. Weasley  _ wasn’t  _ paying attention to Snape. In fact, he was looking straight at Harry. Sirius was...well, being anything  _ but.  _ He was on his back and rolling on the yellow lawn. Funny as it was, any amusement died as the weight of Mr. Weasley’s stare seemed to intensify, and Harry shrunk a bit, slowly inching the ceramic frog behind his back. He understood very suddenly why Mrs. Weasley often waited for him to come home before dishing out punishments on her kids; this was evil. He bit his lip, waiting, but nothing seemed to come. It felt like forever had come and gone by the time anyone spoke again.

Slowly and deliberately, Mr. Weasley said, sounding almost awed, “‘Run me the fuck over. Put me out of my misery you greasy, slimy, no good, beak-nosed bitch.’”

Ohhhh...my god. Oh my  _ god. _

Harry slapped his free hand over his mouth and he hunched in on himself, torn between absolute mortification and panic-laughing. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Mr. Weasley had heard― _ Dumbledore _ had heard that! He didn’t care that Sirius heard it because―well, it was  _ Sirius― _ but Mr. _ Weasley? Dumbledore? _ Hooooo shit.

“Molly would scourgify your mouth for that, son. For  _ all _ of that.” Mr. Weasley said, looking grim, but his face quivered a bit, and then―to Harry’s utmost, if not, confused relief― it broke into a grin. “I won’t, though.”

Harry openly gaped.

At once, Sirius bounded into the house from between Mr. Weasley’s legs and morphed back up into himself. His face was positively  _ glowing.  _ “I  _ really _ didn’t think you had that in you, prongslet.” He was nearly  _ giggling _ as he spoke, and ruffled Harry’s hair roughly. “Professor  _ Micropenis?  _ That was  _ great.” _

Dumbledore said nothing, only sparing Harry a sideways glance, but he  _ swore _ he could see a hint of a smirk twitching on the corner of his lips.

Did they...not care? Harry had screamed obscenities at his  _ teacher.... _ and they weren’t even the soft ones. Harry’s face prickled and he looked out the corner of his eye at Snape, whose face had gone very pinched.

Shit.

“It was also ridiculously rude.” He blurted.

All eyes seemed to whip to him at once, and Harry was very suddenly happier than usual that he was brown, since they surely couldn’t see the blush heating up his face. “Oh wow, I know, self awareness. Very scary thing to see from me, huh?” He joked weakly, putting the ceramic frog down on the credenza very slowly. 

“Quite,” Snape said crisply, staring at him like he’d never seen Harry before, and narrowed his eyes. “And suspicious. What spell did the werewolf teach you in your third year?”

“Oh, get the―” Harry stopped short; Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley were here, no more profanity, “―get out of here.” He snapped, and then tacked on quickly, “And it was the Patronus.”

“Right then, yes, never mind.” The adults around him murmured agreeably and Harry blinked, feeling a bit miffed. 

“Alright. Do you  _ want _ me to call you a beak nosed―beak nosed  _ you know what _ or not? Because I will  _ happily _ do that if that’s your expectation for me.” 

“No, I do  _ not _ want you to call me that.” Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he spoke, and he crossed his arms. “Nor any of the  _ other _ things you said. If you dare do so again, I assure you, there will be consequences.”

Harry  _ very _ nearly shot off with, “Oh yeah? You gonna give me detention?” but clamped his lips shut at the last second, forcibly swallowing the words. They had  _ just _ calmed down―and the tension was still simmering. There was no need to take the lid off again. He just mirrored Snape’s stance and looked askance, glaring at the corner. It wasn’t worth it. 

“Oh yeah, definitely Harry,” Sirius said, and Harry shot him a sour look. 

“In any case,” Mr. Weasley coughed, and ushered Sirius out of the doorway so he could close it. “I see you have food,” He said, gesturing to the table. “Why don’t―Why don’t you two eat, since you clearly need to, and then we can get started?”

“Oh, I wonder why there’s food.” Snape said sourly, sending Harry a scathing look. “Real mystery, Potter.”

Harry didn’t take the bait and ignored him, settling for just glaring, and stayed focused on Mr. Weasley, eyes flickering only briefly to an uncharacteristically quiet Dumbledore. “Get started with what?”

“Eat, first.” Mr. Weasley said firmly, but not unkindly, and Harry barely suppressed a wince when the man ruffled his hair. Ouch.

Harry would’ve protested more, but he  _ was _ hungry and it seemed Mr. Weasley and co. really  _ would _ tell him, so, with one last lingering glance, Harry went to the cabinet to draw out a couple bowls, got some forks too, and batted Snape’s hand away from the bag with food with one of them. 

“I got this,” He said to Snape’s glaring face, and looked over the food, noting that there was  _ way _ more than he thought there’d be. He’d been worried that it’d be rude to eat in front of the guests, but there was plenty to go around now that he was really looking. “Would any of you like some lo mein? There’s vegetables, or chicken. Kung Pao is for Snape, though.”

“Oh, Harry, you don’t need to share―”

“I know, Mr. Weasley, but there’s a lot.” Harry said simply, and spooned a hearty helping of vegetable lo mein into a bowl for himself (he grimaced as he nearly dumped it on the table instead) just as Snape snatched the kung pao box and shuffled into the living room, looking a bit like a miffed cat. “Are you hungry?”

“I suppose a nip wouldn’t kill me. Chicken, please?” 

Dumbledore seemed to be fine whereas Sirius also wanted food. Harry ladled it all out quickly, eager to sit down and rest his sore feet (Sirius earned an elbow in the ribs for saying, “Who would ruin perfectly good grease with  _ baby corn?”  _ to which Harry had responded with “Leave me and my baby corn alone.” before his attack), and before long, everyone was in the living room, eating and being blessedly quiet save for Dumbledore, who was staring serenely out the window. Harry himself avoided it; the light hurt.

Harry was the first done―he wolfed down his food embarrassingly fast (even though he was a little nauseous), but given that he’d worked all day through a splitting headache and a generally sore body that seemed more privy to falling than usual, he forgave himself for it. He slumped into one the couch cushions, of which he’d thoroughly beaten and cleaned earlier, and rubbed his pounding head as he squinted at the rest of the room’s occupants, vaguely thankful that it was dim in here. 

Questions were burning in the back of his throat― _ What’s the situation with Voldemort? Has anyone important died? Why is the Ministry being stupid? What’s with the radio silence since I left school? Where are Ron and Hermione, and are they okay? Did Hedwig find you guys? Why are you all here? Why am I still here? What the hell happened after I got run over? What day is it? Do my aunt and uncle know where I am? Do they care? Did they leave without me? Where even am I? Are we quite sure I’m fully healed (I don’t feel like I am)?  _

But the back of his throat was where they stayed. Somehow, he just couldn’t get himself to say them. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe he wanted the elephant in the room to leave before he started off. Maybe he just couldn’t pick one to start with. He couldn’t tell you, much less himself. He wanted to know the answers so desperately bad, don’t get him wrong, but it felt like the questions he had were just out of reach. Like he was groping the space just before them.

“How  _ did _ you know I liked kung pao chicken?” Snape said suddenly, peering at Harry suspiciously, and Harry felt a brief moment of whiplash come over him from both the topic choice and the way ‘kung pao’ sounded as it came out of Snape’s mouth. He hadn’t been expecting civility. Uncle Vernon usually gave him the stonewall for awhile...

“I didn’t. I took a wild guess. Good to know it was on the mark.” Harry said a beat too late, blinking hard and shaking himself a bit. What the hell was he supposed to continue that with? Errr….sarcasm! “How did  _ you _ manage to run me over? Out of all people on the planet. Just curious.” Wait, shit, that had been more baiting than Harry had intended.

Thankfully, Snape didn’t take it; his lip only curled just as Sirius  _ snorted _ into his dinner, and Harry smiled a bit, settling further into the couch. Phew.

“Dear boy, that’s the question we’re all concerned with.” Dumbledore said, and Harry jerked, almost not expecting to hear his voice. “What on Earth were you doing here in Cokeworth?”

Well, wasn’t that the million Galleon question? What the hell  _ was _ Harry doing in Cokeworth? “Cleaning a house, apparently.” He said, tilting his head towards Snape. 

“Harry.” Mr. Weasley said, smiling but firm nonetheless. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. No funny business.” He said, and tried to supply  _ why _ he was in Cokeworth...and promptly forgot. 

Dammit. 

All eyes were on him, and Harry sucked his teeth, mind completely blank. Fuck. This was the worst time for this.

“Oh, this is purple all over again,” He muttered under his breath. He  _ knew _ why he was in Cokeworth, he  _ knew it,  _ dammit, but he  _ just  _ couldn’t―

“An answer sometime in this century would be appreciated, Potter.” Snape said airily, sounding irritated, and Harry waved him off. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I―I  _ know _ why I was here, I  _ do,  _ I just―I’ve forgotten it.” 

Snape stopped. He sat very still. Then, he leveled a long, hard look at him. “You’ve  _ forgotten  _ it _.”  _ He repeated.

Mr. Weasley and Dumbledore seemed to exchange a look. “Forgotten?” Mr. Weasley sounded concerned. “How do you mean?”

“Exactly how I said,” Harry said bluntly. “It’ll come back in a bit―it’s like purple, I―?”

“Purple?” Sirius repeated.

Harry blinked. He really wished people would stop repeating the things he said. “I didn’t realize this room had an echo,” He said flatly, shook his head, and continued, “Yes, purple. I forgot the word for purple earlier―like, I  _ conceptually _ knew what purple was, I could mix red and blue and it’d be that color, but I couldn’t figure out the  _ word.  _ I remembered it later, though, so it was fine.”

Sirius crept a bit closer to him. “That doesn’t sound altogether fine to me, kid.”

“Well,” Harry...didn’t know what to respond with. “That’s just your opinion.”

A strange silence seemed to wash over the room then, and Harry sunk a bit as the stares lingered. It was intimidating, having four grown men pinning him down with their eyes like this. Snape’s was the worst―until his eyebrows shot up as if in recognition, and then his eyes  _ narrowed.  _

“You  _ foolish _ boy.” He said, lurching to his feet. His wand flew to his hand, and Harry eyed it with no small amount of suspicion. “You’re  _ concussed.  _ You have a concussion, and you cleaned this entire house through it!” He said, sounding accusatory, and Harry bristled at the tone even if the content of his sentence was correct. “And now you’ve gone and made it  _ worse!” _

“Oh, I wonder where I might’ve gotten this concussion from?” Harry snapped, narrowing his eyes right back at Snape as he echoed the man’s earlier words with a finishing, scathing, “Real mystery, _ sir.” _

_ “Why, you―!” _

“Severus.” Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. The hairs on Harry’s arm immediately rose and stood on end. “That’s enough. Heal him. The faster it’s done, the faster we can reach some much-needed conclusions.”

Woof. Harry had never thought he’d think some old guy was scary, but consider him convinced. Yikes. With one last snarl, Snape seemed to calm―and then bopped Harry none-too-gently on the head with his wand. 

_ “Ow!”  _ Harry cried, eyes watering despite the pleasant cooling sensation that followed the whack, “What the  _ f―” _

At once, Snape’s arm was slapped away by none other than Sirius, who began to yell. Harry shook off his sudden drowsiness just to watch, wide-eyed, as they struggled with each other. It seemed a scuffle was imminent, but Mr. Weasley, quicker than Harry would expect from a man his age, swept up from behind and tugged Sirius backwards from underneath the armpits. 

“Un _ hand me,  _ Arthur, or I’ll give you what-for too!” Sirius snarled, and Mr. Weasley visibly rolled his eyes. 

_ ‘Whoa, old man lingo,’  _ Harry thought dully, trying to focus as the pleasant, cooling sensation spread, making his arms rattle a bit as it moved along. For a moment there, Sirius really did sound like his pedigree. 

“I’ve got seven hot-headed sons. What are you going to do to me that they haven’t already, Sirius?” He said, sounding bored, and tugged the man backwards onto the opposite couch. “He was just healing Harry. Some more  _ gentleness _ would’ve been much obliged,” He sent Snape a surprisingly cold look then, and Harry blinked. “But then again, I don’t know how I would’ve expected that from someone like him.”

Damn.  _ Ouch. _ Harry sagged further into the couch cushion, blinking hard. What the hell kind of spell had Snape cast on him? It felt  _ nice _ but...

“So the weasel has claws after all,” Snape said dryly, but he was giving Mr. Weasley the strangest look...

“Quite.” There was a tense beat of silence before, “Now that you’ve eaten, put your wand to good use and clean up the remnants of this warzone,” Mr. Weasley said sharply to Snape, and approached the couch Harry was seated on as he spoke. “I’m sure you had no small part in creating it in the first place.”

Mr. Weasley settled next to Harry, and the room was stonily quiet for several moments before Snape scoffed, then he raised his wand and the things he and Snape had thrown around the room started to mend themselves and whip back to where Harry had initially put them. Harry watched in satisfaction as the dirt from the flower pot lifted off the floor and walls. 

“Why did the  _ dog _ come in the first place?” Snape asked irritably as the process went along, and as if completely unphased by the sourness in Snape’s tone, Sirius said brightly, 

“Well, I had to see my godson, right? It’s not every day you get hit by a car, y’know.”

He was being  _ awfully  _ nonchalant about this. Harry stared. “You  _ do _ realize that being run over could’ve―” Then he stopped. 

He thought about it for a moment. A  _ very  _ vivid mental image of Sirius strangling Snape appeared in his head, and, since he―regretfully―sorta wanted to keep the peace right now, Harry slowly closed his mouth. 

“You know what?” He said, glancing quickly at Snape. “Never mind. This is  _ not _ information you need to be aware of right now.”

_ Note to self: never, ever tell Sirius that being hit by a car could be fatal.  _

Clarence slammed on the table next to him and Mr. Weasley jumped, before furrowing his eyebrows at it. “What―”

“Leave Clarence alone,” Harry said tiredly, lifting his glasses to rub his eyes. “He’s a very special cat, Mr. Weasley.”

Harry could  _ hear _ Snape’s eye roll. “He named that stupid thing.” He explained shortly, “He wouldn’t let me throw it.”

“Yes, I do believe we had the privilege of hearing that part, my boy.” Dumbledore said, sounding faintly amused.

Snape twitched, but said nothing else. Harry yawned, covering his mouth as he did so, and but himself off mid-yawn to yelp when Mr. Weasley tugged his sleeve to pull him downwards. 

“What are you―”

“Easy, kid.” Mr. Weasley said, patting Harry’s back even while he struggled. “You’re probably going to go down for the count in a couple minutes. Best not break your neck in the process.” And then he tugged Harry’s glasses off. 

Harry’s face pricked, and he tried to sit up. “What kind of three year old do you think I am―?”

“My favorite one, now lie back down already.” Mr. Weasley said dryly, and then―he carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. 

Oh― _ oh. _

Wait. Wait a minute. 

This― 

At once, almost against his will, Harry settled. “I’m  _ not _ three.” He said, but it sounded weak. He closed his eyes. 

This felt nice. 

Mr. Weasley’s leg began to wobble as he laughed. “Gets em every time. There aren’t any blankets over there, are there?”

“I washed them all earlier. They were musty.” Harry said, and his own voice sounded strange to him. Like it was heavier than usual. His legs seemed to deaden. “They’re still hanging outside.”

“How did you even  _ wash _ them? The washer’s broken.” Snape said from somewhere faraway, sounding belligerent. 

“It  _ was.  _ I fixed it. The hose was clogged, I had to fix the lid latch, and I fiddled with the motor.” Harry mumbled, not bothering to try to open his eyes anymore.

“Well, aren’t  _ you _ a handy man.” Snape muttered barely loud enough for Harry to hear, just as Arthur said, sounding excited, “You have a muggle washer here?”

Snape sighed. 

“Harry, you  _ must _ show me how it works later but―oh, yes, blanket. I’ll―”

“Allow me,” Dumbledore’s voice said, and moments later, something warm and soft thumped on top of Harry. 

Harry opened his eyes briefly (and with some difficulty) to inspect it, and grimaced at the bright yellow color. “Yuck,” He said, and caught a glimpse of Dumbledore’s face just before he shut his eyes and did not open them again.

The man looked...worried. 

“Why  _ are _ you all here?” He mumbled into Mr. Weasley’s leg. 

He was out before he got an answer.

Harry didn’t get to rest too long. In fact, it can’t have been any longer than an hour later before he rose from the dead at the sound of an authoritative knock, shortly followed thereafter by the sound of raised voices. He lifted his head from Mr. Weasley’s lap and craned his head towards the door, even though the man tried to push his head (gently) back down. He stared at the front door, trying to process what he was seeing. It was a cop. No―no, it was  _ two  _ cops.  _ Muggle _ cops. 

_ ‘What the fuck.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry & Snape: -screaming loud enough for Arthur to clearly make out exactly what Harry’s saying from a distance-  
> Harry & Snape: -Banging and crashing-  
> Harry & Snape: -Sudden, elongated silence-  
> Harry, an hour or so later: oh man i wonder why the cops are here  
> Harry: weird.


	4. I DON'T PISS IN THE FUCKING BUSHES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The content of this chapter is gonna get me put on a watchlist lmao.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarence, vibing: Oh man this kid is really nice  
> Clarence: He told me I was cute  
> Clarence: And dusted me so gently  
> Clarence: I hope he stays awhile--  
> Snape, snatching Clarence up: V I B E C H E C K  
> Clarence: :O !!

In retrospect, Harry would like to note that it was a bit absurd to expect the cops _not_ to come. Seriously. There had been loud screaming, lots of crashing, and then a long, sudden silence. That looked _really_ bad on paper, and just as bad―if not, worse―in real life. Really, why the hell they took so damn long was a _much_ better question to ponder than why they came at all. 

(The narrator knows the answer _damn well_ , given that Cokeworth is a really impoverished area with a high population of POC, and you can’t exploit much from domestic violence... but she’s not trying to get put on a watchlist, so she’s going to stop right here.)

Bottom line was this; Harry was a bit blindsided by their appearance. Partly because he was concussed and mid-nap, and partly because the police had never bothered with him before. Unless it was to give him a hard time, that was. See, Harry was this wonderful thing called brown, and while he was still _awesome,_ it meant that cops never seemed to particularly like him. That’s another story, though. 

“We got a call about a...disturbance.” One of them said, eyes directly on Harry as he spoke. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, we’re all good.” Harry mumbled, looking right back at the cop who was staring at him. He didn’t much like the way the guy was looking at him. “We had a shouting match earlier, ‘s all. It’s done.” He said, even quieter. 

Suddenly, he had a bad feeling about this. Something about the guy’s stance... 

“Oh?” Said the other cop, folding his arms. “And what of the banging that was reported?”

Trusting his gut, Harry went to cautiously brush it off, say something about things falling off the wall when Snape slammed a door or something since the room _was_ clean now and there wasn’t any evidence of their...previous _altercation_ , but before he could so much as open his mouth, there came― 

“He threw a book.” 

And just like that, Harry’s heart leapt to his throat. 

Snape had said this with an eyeroll, looking very bored of this encounter, but it seemed that neither cops heard the moodily tacked on, “I followed suit. The mess is cleaned already.” because the moment after Snape had said the first part, they both turned to look directly at Harry. His knees tensed. Yeah, no, he _really_ had a bad feeling about this, and was almost 99% sure that Snape had just _exponentially_ worsened how this was going to go down with five little words. Er. Four. Four words. Goddammit, Harry couldn’t count. _‘This is what I get for not learning maths for the past 5 years’._ Harry thought, swallowing. 

_‘Wait. Focus, dammit.’_

“Is this young man bothering you?” The cop on the left said, gesturing lazily at Harry with a cold sort of look in his eyes. 

Harry heard a dog whine, and looked to his right to see Sirius as a dog, slinking off the opposite couch and starting to creep closer to him. He sat down right at Mr. Weasley’s feet, and put his head onto Harry’s forearm. Harry could see it in his eyes, even if he was a dog at the moment; Sirius was nervous. His eyes looked to the cops, and then back at Harry, and then he growled lowly. 

So Harry _was_ reading this right. 

Remember how Harry said cops giving him a hard time was another story? Apparently it wasn’t, because it was 2 seconds away from happening right now. He was pinging it right away―these guys were going to be _real_ trouble. Just you wait. 

‘ _Awesome. Not only do I get run over, a concussion and yelled at for cleaning a house, but now I’m going to get harassed by biased authority. You’re on a roll today, God.’_

“If he was bothering me, why would he be taking a nap on my couch?” Snape said, still sounding bored, but immediately after, Mr. Weasley said, 

“This _boy_ is fine―he’s done nothing wrong. He’s the one that’s injured, anyway. Got a concussion.” 

He sounded a little affronted on Harry’s behalf, and it was sweet, really, it was, but Harry tugged his trouser leg quickly to make him stop. That had just made him sound all _types_ of bad, and...well. He’d seen how these things went before; it wasn’t a good idea to piss the cop off. Not for _him._

And something seemed to dawn on Snape in the moment. 

“...What’s your name, boy?” The cop on the right asked, creeping more in the room. 

Harry froze. _‘Information given freely is information lost,’_ He thought suddenly. 

“His name is Evan.” Snape said suddenly, and Harry turned to stare at him, mouth falling open slightly. 

Wait―wait. What the _hell_ was he playing at? _Lying_ to the _cops?_ Oh my god, if they found out, they’d―shit. _Shit._ Mr. Weasley went to say something, looking confused, but Harry pinched his leg, knowing damn well that they were _committed_ now and could _not_ contradict that without some serious trouble. Mr. Wealsey winced visibly, and Harry shrunk when the cop looked at him even harder. He hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“And who is Evan to you, Mr…?”

Something flickered in Snape’s face, and in a split second in which he looked at Harry, there was seething hatred in his eyes as he said, “Murphy. John Murphy. Evan is my…” He seemed to gag on the word before he finally got it out, and it was the _worst_ one he could’ve possibly picked. “... _son.”_

Mr. Weasley’s hand tightened suddenly on Harry’s shoulder. Harry was not concerned with it, though, because oh.

My.

_Fucking._

**_God._ **

What the _fuck_ was he doing? What the―What the FUCK was he DOING?! If―lying about his name was _one_ thing. You could reasonably claim that Evan was a nickname and move on. But his―Snape’s _son?_ Not only was that _gag-worthy,_ seriously, _ew―_ not only was it WILDLY unlikely that Snape had ever seen a _lick_ of tail in his life based on...on ALL of him―not only THAT, but these cops would figure out _really_ fast that Snape was full of it. The only thing the two of them had in common was the hair color and MAYBE their nose shape on a bad day―a _really_ bad day. Like, for the _love of god_ , Snape was _white._ They did _not_ even _remotely_ look like father and son. 

But what had been said was said.

Harry looked up to Mr. Weasley on a near-reflex, sorta trying to suss out what was going through _his_ head...and all he saw was _very_ thinly veiled murder in his eyes. They exchanged a look in that moment, and Mr. Weasley smiled tightly at him, patting his back very gently with his other hand. His hand was shaking as he did it, though. Okay, so, Mr. Weasley was _just_ as confused and pissed off as Harry was. They were definitely on the same boat―he wasn’t quite sure why Mr. Weasley was there as firmly as he was, but they were _definitely_ in the same boat, which was all Harry was particularly concerned with right now. That meant this was just as crazy as he thought this was. Because let Harry reiterate. What the _FUCK_ was Snape playing at? 

“John Murphy, eh?” The left-cop said, sucking on his teeth. “Aren’t you that bloke they call the town hermit? Chasing all them kids off your lawn? Go away every school year to go teach at some... _snazzy_ school just for all the nig―” The cop looked at Harry, and paused briefly. “For all the _rascals_ to come and vandalize your place?”

Snape looked like he was trying _very_ hard not to crack his own teeth. “Yes.” He said tightly. 

The cop looked back at Harry for a very, very long time, then back to Snape, and said, “Never heard of you having a kid.” 

“And?” Snape said, sounding a bit tetchy. “Do I _need_ to advertise my family?”

“He doesn’t _look_ like he’s your family.” The right-cop said, fingering his belt. “Not a bit, really.”

“He takes more after his _mother.”_ Snape ground out like every word was a thorn on the sole of his foot. “ _Surely_ you’re not telling me that I don’t know what my own son looks like?”

“No, of course not, Mr. Murphy.” The cop said, sounding faux-placating, as he went further into the room, approaching Harry. “However, he _looks_ off.” The cop got close to Harry’s face, so close that Harry could smell the coffee on his breath. Nausea swept through his stomach and he recoiled away. “Did you eat anything interesting tonight, boy? Take anything funny?”

Mr. Weasley put his hand on the cop’s shoulder and began to nudge him backwards, just as Sirius began to growl. “He has a concussion.” He said firmly, dangerously. “Like you’ve already been told. Leave him be. He’s not involved.”

“And where did he get that concussion?” The cop asked, ignoring the rest of what Mr. Weasley had said as he raised his eyebrows. Harry wanted, very suddenly, to spit in the man’s face. “Do anything...unsavory?”

“We _did_ get reports of a burglary not too long ago,” The cop closer to the door said, and Harry stiffened. _Oh, here we go._ “Young man, black, wearing white shoes. Looked about his height. Were you two _really_ having a bit of a domestic, or were you _arguing_ over something? Something _he_ did?”

“Absolutely _not.”_ Snape said quickly, in a coarse tone of voice. “He’s been home this whole time, and he doesn’t match that description. He doesn’t _have_ white shoes, and he’s not black, either. He’s Indian, just like his other half of the family.”

“People like _him,_ they all look the same to me.” The cop closest to Harry said. “And perhaps that _book_ he threw were shoes. Mind if I take a look around?”

“Yes, I _do_ mind, actually.” Snape said, acid in his voice. “You have no probable cause and no warrant. He doesn’t match your description, he wasn’t in the area, and the conflict you were called here for has already been over and done with for ages. There’s absolutely _no_ reason for you to be in my house anymore. P- _Please_ leave.” 

“I think I’m the judge of that, Mr. Murphy.” The cop said lowly, and then he stood over Harry. “So, in any case. We’re going to need you to come with us, young man. Get up and off the couch,” And then, he flashed his handcuffs. 

_‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.’_ Sirius _snarled_ and went to bite at the cops leg, and Harry suppressed a yelp when Sirius got kicked for all his trouble. He whimpered, and then leapt onto the couch and on top of Harry. Harry hurriedly fisted his fur and mumbled, “It’s okay, Snuffles, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s _not―_ you’re not― _surely_ you’re not _arresting_ him?” Mr. Weasley shouted, leaning his body over Harry as he spoke. “He’s done _nothing_ wrong!”

Pandemonium broke loose. The cop by the door came closer, the cop nearest to Harry started to yell, Sirius started barking like crazy, Mr. Weasley yelled back, Snape started spitting insults and threats, and in the middle of it all was Harry and―

_“Confundus.”_

―Dumbledore. 

Harry froze as it happened, and watched in awe as Dumbledore blasted the other cop with one too. The room fell into dead, stunned silence. 

“...Well,” The cop coughed, the confusion flickering on and off his face. “Right, then. Keep your son in line, and we won’t have any further problems, sir.” He said to Snape. “You’re free to leave.”

And with that, the cops turned heel...and walked away. 

No one spoke for a very long moment. 

“...You just confounded a cop.” Harry said numbly, gaping at Dumbledore. “ _Two_ cops.”

“And I’d do it again.” The man said simply, looking...well. Surprisingly frightening. His eyes softened when he looked at Harry, though.

In that moment, Harry’s respect for the man rose exponentially. 

Slowly, Snape shut the front door, and then in a flick of his wrists, he locked it. Harry stared at him. Snape stared at Harry. Neither of them spoke, nor did anyone else in the room. It felt, for a moment, that they were all mutually trying to process what the hell had just happened. And then, Sirius morphed back suddenly and Harry grunted at his weight. 

“Sirius, get _off,_ you fat arse.” He said over his shoulder. “Jesus.”

Sirius didn’t seem interested in the half-hearted jab, though―he scrambled off of Harry just to sink to his knees on the floor and ask, alarm in his eyes, “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Isn’t that the question of the hour?” Harry mumbled, and then looked to Snape. “I think that’s a better question to be asking you, really, because last I checked, my name is _Harry_ and I am one _hundred_ percent sure that I’m _not_ your son.”

Snape’s face pricked red just as Mr. Weasley’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what Sirius is asking, son, but I admit, I am... _curious_ about that too.” 

Harry...wasn’t quite sure what to make of that tone, so he ignored it entirely. “Then what was he―?” Oh, wait. Duh. “OH. Yeah. That. Er.”

Harry really never thought he’d have to explain the concept of police brutality and racism to a bunch of old guys, but he did just that. It took Mr. Weasley in particular a hot minute to understand it―Harry had had to use the comparison of POC being muggleborns and white people being the proverbial purebloods for him to get it, and when Harry told him that the police were only nice to the purebloods...hoo, boy. Harry had never seen the man more scandalized in his life.

“There could be an _accident_ in police custody, something like that.” Harry had told him grimly, rubbing his head. “There’s a very real possibility that they could’ve killed me if they wanted to. Just because I’m brown.”

“That’s―That’s _barbaric.”_ Mr. Weasley had looked positively stricken.

Harry had looked at him, and then the rest of the room slowly. “That’s _reality_.” He had said, and nothing more.

The room had sat in a frozen sort of silence since then, and Harry had long-resettled in Mr. Weasley’s lap, curling under the blanket and shutting his eyes again. He noticed, very suddenly, that the grandfather clock he had vigorously dusted earlier ticked surprisingly loud. 

“You going to kip down there again?” Mr. Weasley said suddenly, an odd note in his voice as he slowly lowered his hand onto Harry’s back again.

“No, no, I took a power nap, it’s all good.” Harry mumbled, sighing. “Just resting.”

This wasn’t entirely true; Harry was actually _ridiculously_ tired right now, but if he _said_ that, Mr. Weasley might make him move and he. Er. He didn’t want to do that. He wanted Mr. Weasley to stay for a while, but if he had to _ask_ and was brushed off...well. If he was being dead honest to you and you only...he didn’t quite know how he’d react to that rejection right now. He was a lot more rattled about that whole encounter with the cops than he was letting on, and the _only_ reason he could keep his brave face on right now was Mr. Weasley’s presence, and that alone. 

So. He stayed. He closed his eyes, held onto Mr. Weasley’s trouser leg, and let the man rub circles on his back. No one seemed to know what to say, so they all sat in silence for a while longer, grandfather clock still ticking, and _just_ before Harry dozed back off, there was a shuffling of robes. 

And Dumbledore said, “Well. I think that all just about settled the matter. Harry will stay here for the summer.”

Harry’s eyes shot open, and _very_ suddenly, he was _wide_ the fuck awake. “I'll do _what?”_

Snape sighed very, _very_ deeply, and Harry watched him lower his head in his hands. _“God_ dammit.” He said.

Dumbledore stared down at Harry for a long couple of seconds, looking...slightly perturbed? “I had thought…” He wavered a bit, and with a quick headshake, said, “I had thought you’d be asleep by now, my boy.”

“I said I _wasn’t_ taking a nap again.” Harry said, and then the implication of Dumbledore’s words hit him and he scrambled to sit upright. “You were _not_ going to make that decision without my input.”

Except, apparently, that had been his e _xact i_ ntention. Okay. _Fine,_ then. The respect Dumbledore had earned a bit ago? Fucking _gone. Screw_ this guy. 

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, but Harry held his hand up quickly. 

“No, no, _nonono.”_ He said, waving his finger vigorously. “Do _not_ ‘Harry’ me right now. That was _not_ cool.”

“Not at all, no.” Mr. Weasley said stiffly from his side, hand still resting on Harry’s back. 

Harry turned to him quickly―”Thank you,” He said, and then turned quickly back to Dumbledore again. “I don’t know _what_ part of any of this told you that this is the place for me, but you are _wrong_ and out of your _mind_ if you think I’m spending any longer here than I have to.”

Seriously. Harry would go back to his aunt and uncle’s before he spent the summer here. Not that Harry _wanted_ to, but like. At least he was mostly ignored there, and knew his way around.

Snape pointed, and for perhaps the first time _ever,_ he was on Harry’s side. “What he said.”

“Ditto,” Sirius said, and in a perfect echo of Harry’s previous thought, he immediately followed that with, “I never thought I’d agree with Snivellus, but like. _Ditto.”_

Dumbledore sighed, and in an old-man-y way, he took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his crooked nose. Harry had an impulse to make it even _more_ crooked, but tamped it down quickly. 

“I am absolutely aware as to _why_ you all might not quite agree with the decision I’m making here, but―”

“Albus, I’m putting my foot _down_ here.” 

... _Whoa._

Harry watched, going a bit stiff as Mr. Weasley rose to his feet. He sounded... _whoa._ Whoa. That was the fiercest tone of voice Harry had ever heard from a ginger.

Mr. Weasley pointed a finger _right_ in Dumbledore’s face, and said, in a low tone, “I was _already_ worried about him being here, what with everything I’ve heard from him and my boys, but the _state_ of where we are right now? It’s not _safe_ outside―I saw needles in the gutter, for God’s sake. And the argument we heard coming in? _That_ was the final nail for me. And now we’ve just seen how―how he’ll be _treated_ by the people _supposed_ to be _protecting_ him here. This is _not_ a safe place for him and I am _not_ letting you keep him here just because _you_ think it is.” The silence rang in the room for a long moment, before he pulled his body back and said, in a very odd tone of voice, “You already know my stance on _other_ choices you’ve made for him.”

Let him tell you, Harry understood, very suddenly, how Mr. Weasley had survived seven kids. If he ever had _that_ tone used against him...phew. He would’ve backed the _hell_ off with his tail tucked between his legs _so_ fast. _Wow._

Dumbledore, however, did not seem particularly keen on retreating with his tail tucked between his legs and remained impassive and impartial. “I’m afraid you don’t have too much say in that, Arthur.” Dumbledore said, tone imperceptible.

Mr. Weasley’s tone, however, was very much _not_ imperceptible as he damn near _snarled,_ “The _hell_ I don’t. He’s not staying here.”

Sirius suddenly squeezed in the space to Harry’s left and grabbed his arm, exchanging a look with him. Sirius’s eyes seemed to say, ‘ _Should we get popcorn?’_ and Harry did his best to make his eyes say right back, ‘ _Shut up.’_

“Even if leaving here could very well kill him?”

Er. _Excuse me?_ Sirius’s hand tensed on Harry’s arm, and Harry exchanged a nervous look with him. 

The silence rang in the room for a long beat, and Dumbledore seemed to straighten more. “As of now, the dark forces we’re doing our best to circumvent are unaware of where Harry lives, nor his current location. It was a stroke of luck beyond measure that they’ve not found out about his excursion here, to Cokeworth, as confirmed by Severus early last evening.”

Wait, as far as Harry knew, he’d been run _over_ last evening. “―Hold on, roll back. How long _have_ I been out? What day is it?” Last Harry checked, it had been Tuesday― 

“It’s Thursday.”

Harry blinked. “It’s _what?”_

Everyone stared at him. “How long did you think you were down for the count, kiddo?” Sirius said.

Harry looked between everyone individually, and raised his hand to his mouth before he started to laugh. It wasn’t a good laugh. It was a panic laugh―he’d missed an entire day of his life without even knowing. _Shit._

“I don’t _know!”_ He said, bowing forward a bit. “I wasn’t―the _first_ thing I woke up to was a _spaghetti_ monster, I really wasn’t concerned with the date.”

“I keep hearing that term pop up from you, what on earth does it mean?” Mr. Weasley asked, sounding lost. “Spaghetti monster?”

“It means there was a bowl of super moldy spaghetti like, two feet away from me when I opened my eyes. It was bad.”

Snape still had his head in his hands. “ _Focus.”_ He said.

Right, right…

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As I said. It was a stroke of luck beyond measure that your departure from Surrey was completely missed, Harry. Should you go back...I fear that luck may no longer be on your side. Leaving here now would run the risk of your home being discovered, jeopardizing the safety of you and your family more than it already has been. You can’t be driven; they’re monitoring the cars coming in. You cannot fly; not only are you still injured, my boy, but they’re monitoring the skies. You cannot floo; they are watching it. I cannot obtain a portkey for you. I cannot apparate you without aggravating your injuries, and the use of it on an unlicensed minor would tip off the Ministry, which I fear has _also_ been infiltrated. An apparition, unfortunately, can be easily traced.”

Harry stared at him for a long, long time, heart sinking. “And what of Hogwarts? If it’s so dangerous for me to travel, how am I supposed to get there at all this year?” He was suddenly _very_ afraid that he’d be told that he couldn’t go. It seemed a very real possibility, but then―

“I’ll have to Floo you in this year, my boy.” Dumbledore said, looking tired. 

“And why not now?” Harry said, doing his best to keep the accusing note out of his voice. “If my life is so in danger, wouldn’t it be smarter to keep me in the castle?”

Dumbledore sighed deeply then. He approached Harry, knelt, and looked up at him. “If I felt it was safe for you, I would do it in a heartbeat, my boy. I wouldn’t hesitate. But…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re old enough to understand this, I’m sure. You’re aware of the Restricted Section, yes?”

Harry couldn’t see what that had to do with anything, but he could sense that Dumbledore was going to go somewhere with this, so he nodded. 

“Then you must be aware of dark magic, correct?”

“Obviously, yeah.” Harry said, shaking his head. That was a bit of a thick thing to ask. He couldn’t quite resist tacking on an impatient, “I’m well aware of what killed my parents, _sir.”_

Dumbledore smiled humorlessly, then. “The Castle is several centuries old and built through the aid of magic. If you’re aware of dark magic, I’m sure you understand _old_ magic as well. As it ages, magic grows a sort of... _sentience._ A sentience that I fear doesn’t align entirely with our realm.” His voice grew grave, and Harry, sensing that he ought to, listened closely. “What I’m trying to tell you, my boy, is that the magic the castle comes from is _old._ And that has...ramifications. While the Castle is secure, there’s so many places for danger to hide. When the school is in operation, it’s a different story; there’s witnesses and incentives for the magic there to behave. But just you? Alone in that castle? I truly don’t think that you could remain unscathed, capable as you are.” 

Harry stared. “What do you mean?”

Dumbledore looked very tired. “The castle is old,” He repeated. “There are many secrets left buried in the bedrock, just as well as there is deep, deep darkness. There’s a reason we don’t let students stay for the summer just as there’s a reason that we have a curfew in the school, my boy. It’s not just to keep the students in line and at a distance―it’s to keep them safe too.” And Dumbledore looked him in the eyes then, and said softly. “Hogwarts _is_ safe, my boy, but things hide in the darkness it was built from. I can’t leave you there virtually alone, and feel in full that it wouldn’t find you.”

...Oh.

“‘Dive down deep into her sound, but not too far, or you’ll be drowned.’” Mr. Weasley said softly, sadly, and Harry turned to him. “That’s a lullaby my own mother used to sing to me. Lullabies like that don’t come around without reason, son.”

Harry felt his shoulders fall and he pulled back, going cold. He stared for a long moment, lips parting a bit. He looked to Sirius, and then back to Dumbledore. 

“...I understand,” He said, and meant it. 

“I knew you would.” Dumbledore said, patting his knee, and then straightened. “And even if we were to send you home, it wouldn’t jeopardize just you either.” He looked to Snape, then, and said. “Should the Death Eaters find out that Severus took you in and didn’t turn you over...the consequences for him and perhaps the Order as a whole could be catastrophic. No. It’s for the best that you remain here, up until we can at least find a way to safely transfer you to our base of operations.” 

Harry supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that they had one of those, so he didn’t voice his curiosity. 

“Furthermore. Albeit a bit...loud...this house appears to be in _perfect_ working order, suited for someone to live safely.” Dumbledore said primly, thumbing the couch arm as he strode across the room. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Yeah, the house _was_ in perfect working order now. ‘ _Really wonder why. Nice going, Potter.’_ He thought to himself. “And now we have a cover for Harry here, courtesy to Severus, who in making it, not only established it in the first place, but affirmed that he’d go to _any_ lengths to protect Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore turned to Snape then, and said, with a trace of humor in his tone, said, “Isn’t that right, _Mr. Murphy?”_

“I _hate_ you.” Snape said. He still had yet to remove his head from his hands. 

“Now Severus, don’t talk like that in front of your _son.”_ Mr. Weasley said, a strange edge in his voice, and Harry turned in time to see a _very_ pinched look flash across Mr. Weasley’s face.

“Yeah, what the hell _was_ that about? You never answered.” Sirius said, eyes narrowing. “Like, I _know_ you wanted to be James _so bad,_ but you didn’t need to show it off so embarrassingl―”

Before Harry could examine what the hell _that_ meant, Snape’s head ripped up and, bright red, he snarled, “It was a bid to keep those bastards from _arresting_ him. I didn’t think they’d do it if―if he was in front of a parent.” He looked askance then, and he said bitterly, “And it was all for nothing anyway.” 

Harry cocked his head. Reviewing the whole police encounter with this information in mind cleared up a _lot,_ but part of it still made no sense. “If you knew they were probably going to try to arrest me, why the _hell_ did you tell them I threw a book?”

Snape looked at him for a long moment, and then, very stiffly, he said, “I didn’t consider the ramifications of that in the moment.”

Harry blinked. He blinked again. “Did you forget that I was brown for a second or something?”

Snape shut his eyes tightly. “I... _forgot_ how the police treat people like you here.”

...I― 

Harry looked between everyone in the room for a minute, pressed his lips in a line, and slowly nodded. “Must be nice to forget that racism exists.” Snape’s shoulders actually hunched together and Harry felt a short wave of satisfaction curl pleasantly in his stomach. ‘ _Gotcha.’_ He thought, trying not to smile. “Anyway,” He said, putting back on his brave face. “I guess that _does_ about settle it after all, doesn’t it? I don’t _want_ to, but since I clearly have to, I’ll…” Harry sighed. “Stay here. Though, for the record, I want it to be known that this house was _not_ in working order a couple hours ago and you are all _damn_ lucky I cleaned it before you got here, because _ew._ Ew.” 

“The house was dirty on _purpose_ , you pillock.” Snape said, voice strangled. “And you―you _cleaned_ it. _All_ of it. I don’t―I _don’t_ understand how or _why_ you did that.”

Harry cocked his head towards him, narrowing his eyes. “Did you _want_ me to throw a tantrum? Because I _assure_ you, it was an ongoing one. A lot of words came out of me when I cleaned the mold in the bathroom, and each and every single one of them would’ve made Mrs. Weasley scourgify my mouth.”

“...There was _what_ in the bathroom?” Snape said, looking appalled.

Harry blinked, “There was _mold._ In the _bathroom._ Under the _sink._ Do you fuc―” Did this man just _never_ venture into that bathroom? What the _hell― “_ Do you PEE OUTSIDE?”

“I p― _where I do my business is none of your concern!”_

“Yes, it IS if you’re PISSING OUTSIDE LIKE A _DOG._ I am _not_ sharing a house with a bloke who _pees in bushes exclusively._ Do you _piss_ in _bushes,_ Snape? Yes or no? Do you piss in the bushes like a _tweaker_?”

“Oi.”

“Shut up, Sirius, you’re a _dog,_ I’m _aware._ I _know_ you pee in bushes and I do _not_ need to hear about it. What I _need_ to hear is whether or not this man is more of a lunatic than I already thought he was, what with his _spaghetti monster,_ so if he could be _so kind―_ ”

“Shut UP about the spaghetti monster!”

_“Do you piss in the bushes or NOT?”_

**_“I DON’T PISS IN THE FUCKING BUSHES, GODDAMMIT!”_ **

Mr. Weasley looked pointedly at Dumbledore then, and then simply gestured to them both. Harry knew _exactly_ what he meant and agreed in full, but there wasn’t anything he could say about it so he simply pressed his lips in a line and sighed heavily. 

“Well, that’s at least _one_ glowing mark for you, _sir._ You don’t pee in bushes. Hooray.” Harry did half-hearted jazz hands for the additional blow, and then leaned into Sirius. What else needed to be addressed? Oh. “Can I stay in the attic?”

Snape jerked, as if he hadn’t quite expected this sudden turn. “Why the _hell_ would you like to stay in the attic?”

“Because I wanted to channel the ghoul that’s stuck up in Mr. Weasley’s.” Harry said dryly, and with a barely suppressed eye roll, he said, “Because I liked it.” 

Snape peered at him like he was insane. “You _liked_ the _attic?”_

Did he stutter or something? “Well, I didn’t have to clean black _mold_ out of there, so yeah.” Harry said defensively. “It was well insulated too. It was actually cold up there, so I won’t die from the heat.”

“It’s full of _spiders.”_

“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Weasley said, and covered his eyes with his hands. 

Harry ignored him. “Spiders are friend-shaped. And I already chased them outside anyway.”

Snape kept staring at him, and with a slow head shake, he blinked hard and said, “You know what? Fine. Okay. Stay in the attic. It’s harder for you to bother me if you’re up there, anyway.”

“That was the idea.” 

No one seemed to know what to add from there, so they sat in awkward silence for about a minute before Dumbledore sighed, nodded, and said, “Well. If that’s all. I do believe it’s due time to leave the two of you to your own devices.” He looked at Harry, “Take care, my boy,” and then he looked pointedly at Snape and said, “And do not hesitate to call upon the Order if something goes awry.”

Everyone exchanged quick goodbyes with him, he got a friendly hair-ruffle from sirius and a lingering hug from Mr. Weasley, and then, just as soon as they had come, they were gone. Harry stared at Snape. Snape stared at Harry. 

“So.” Harry said. 

“Jesus Christ.” Snape gusted out in a breath, and shuffled towards the kitchen. 

...Well, then. Harry stood in place for awhile, wondering what the hell he was supposed to be doing with himself. He looked at Clarence again, and smiled half-heartedly. 

“I forgot that money tin even existed,” Snape said suddenly, and there was a clatter in the sink after he spoke. “It was my mother’s.” And then, as if he were trying not to gag on the words, he said, “Thank you for finding it.”

Whoa. 

Harry looked left and right, but saw no one else that Snape could be talking to. Er... “I’m taking Clarence with me,” He said in lieu of responding like a normal human being, and, after swiping the ugly frosted glass cat, he scampered out of the room before Snape could pick a fight with him.

What the _hell_ had that just been? Because if it was an olive branch, it fucking sucked. Harry would wait for a better one to grow, thanks.

* * *

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *

* * *

Arthur took Snape by the shoulder in the next Order meeting, looked him dead in the eyes, said, “I will _fucking_ murder you,” and then walked away without another word. 

Snape will admit it to you and to you only; he never thought he’d live to see the day he was legitimately intimidated by a Weasley, but boy...he had seen it. He had seen it _very_ clearly. 

And he slept with one eye open that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape, internally: Oh shit they're gonna try arrest him  
> Snape, internally: shitfuckshitfuck WHAT DO I DO  
> Snape, internally: I HATE him but I don't want him to get MURDERED.  
> Snape: That's my son.  
> Arthur, who has loved Harry as a son for years now: REAL SHIT?????
> 
> I have something important to get across about the cops and their behavior in this chapter. 
> 
> First and foremost, their behavior was realistic, perhaps not as spot on as it could've been given that I'm a cute little white girl, but the way they treated Harry? In general, that's the expectation. And it's sick, but more on that in a sec. 
> 
> I’m not stupid enough to think the cops would be chill with Harry, and I hope you aren't either. He’s brown in this story, and we all know damn well by now that cops are major fucking dickheads to POC, and, as I’m sure you can guess, especially so in 1995, which is not only an era where racist behavior was more easily overlooked, but this was the year when there was actually a riot in Brixton in mid-december over the death of Wayne Douglas, a 26-year-old black man, in police custody (I hope Wayne rests in peace and power). A lot of the reason behind the riot was the amalgamation of repeated expressions of police brutality against the black youth there, Brixton’s long history of police harassment and discrimination over the black residents in general, and rage over the yuppification of the town, of which had been previously predominantly occupied by POC. 
> 
> Brixton circa 1995 is much like what I imagine Cokeworth to be. Cokeworth is an imaginary town, but I always ping it in the same general area as Brixton in my head, and model it in much the same way. Brixton seems to just hug the very edges of the English Midlands, which is where Cokeworth was said to be situated. Brixton had a very gritty, factory hard-work feel, just as Cokeworth did to me. It just fit. 
> 
> Enough on that, though. The main point I want to get across, and blatantly so, in this endnote is this: all cops are bastards, and that IS reflected in this fic. Yes, nOt AlL cOpS aRe BaD pEoPlE...but then again, not all drug dealers are bad people either. I’m sure there are drug dealers who donate to charity, help people, and go to church and shit. But that doesn’t change that what they’re doing as a profession is profoundly damaging and fundamentally flawed. Same case with police. Police officers as people can most certainly be good people, and they have certainly helped SOME people, and I’m sure there’s a handful who aren’t intentionally, consciously evil, but to be completely cold about it, the only good cops are,
> 
> A: Fired from their jobs for reasons I’m sure we all can guess.  
> B: Literally the one (1) cop in a tiny town, and even then, I squint at them. 
> 
> To keep your job as a cop, you need to be willing to overlook a LOT of fuckery, as the cops have formed some sort of “brotherhood code” that basically means that if you whistleblow, you’re not a brother and you’re out. The corruption in the field is so widespread, so insidious, and so hush hush for this precise reason. If you snitch on a cop, you’re not a cop anymore. Period. This is NOT a myth; a family friend of mine was literally a cop for all of two months because of this, and swore he’d never go back. And he is 100% not the first person to have claimed the same. 
> 
> This brotherhood corruption is such a widespread phenomena, in fact, that it’s literally easier to generalize All Cops Are Bastards because if you had to sit your ass down and name out every single police district that’s seen some corruption and other jackassery, you’d be there for hours...and you’d only be able to find the ones that HAVEN’T hushed it all up. The police in general are a fundamentally corrupt and deeply damaged system built by the rich and white to police the poor and people of color they sought to exploit or, god forbid, own. The police system was literally founded on the notion of re-kidnapping escaped slaves, for god’s sake. The people who are cops could very well be decent people, but within that uniform, as a profession, each and every single one of them is a bastard. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter. And remember, ACAB! Don’t trust them until we defund them to instead fund training for conflict de-escalation, more mental health services, better screening, help for preventive measures, etc nor until we finally get around to reforming them because Jesus H Christ. Have a good one, guys.


End file.
